Of Death and Thunder
by Tokyo Sunset
Summary: The Spy explains his dread of thunder over a glass of Chivas and a cigarette.


There was nothing more terrifying than war. There was nothing like the feeling a person gets after he realizes that, in a minute or so, somebody is going to die. Your heart starts pounding, your skin crawls, and you feel like crying, even if it would be the most inappropriate thing to do at the time. And that was exactly the feeling young Adrien felt, when he heard the thin makeshift wall break. He was secluded in a cellar with his sister, who was now protectively grasping him in her arms. She was as scared as he was, if not more. The thin fake wall protecting them, hiding them from anyone that might have entered, was now being broken through by the traitors of their magnificent land, the Fifth Column members.

The nine-year-old boy was clutching his sister's shirt. He was freezing cold, even though he was wrapped in an oversized black coat, and wearing his sister's large boots, originally belonging to their father. His sister squeezed him tightly. She was sitting in a cold, damp corner, bringing her dirty, frostbitten feet closer to her body. She whispered something to herself, and, almost immediately, Adrien knew that she was praying.

The bayonettes broke through the thin wall, and four Fifth Column members marched into the cold cellar. Three of them pulled away Adrien's sister by her hair, making her scream and sob while desperately trying to reach her brother. They pushed her through the gaping hole in the wall, ordering her to leave the cellar and go outside. The fourth member grabbed Adrien by the arm. Adrien protested, but the soldier smacked him across the face whenever he made a sound. His sister was crying, begging for mercy. Adrien was too petrified to speak at all. They shooed them up the stairs, into the small pillaged home. Philippe, his uncle, his wonderful rich uncle who was supposed to protect them here in Marseilles after they travelled halfway through France in order to escape their impending doom, was sitting in his sofa, holding today's newspaper lifelessly in his hands, a thin trail of blood coming from his gaping eye socket. Adrien saw another soldier stealing his radio, climbing out of a broken window.

Rain poured over them when they were shooed onto the streets. Thunder struck in the distance, overpowering the terrified screams of many men and women running through the streets themselves. Not much was left from the Marseilles bombing. The old, gray buildings were destroyed, crushed like they were made of paper. Bodies were laying flat in the muck, and some traitor went as far as kicking those lifeless bodies, laughing as the dead men's children cried in pain. A woman was running through the streets, carrying a swaddled infant in her arms. She fell on her knees and shrieked into the heavens, which were cloudy and crying. Adrien looked at his sister, who was sobbing.

"Please," she managed as one soldier loosened his grip on her dirty, unwashed hair; "Please, spare him! He's only a child!"

They laughed at her, jeering in German, not respecting their native tongue the young girl was speaking in. The soldier holding Adrien pushed him down on the ground. The other three soldiers, the heartless monsters, cackled like hyenas as the boy's eyes filled with tears and mud. He looked at his sister, reaching her bloody hand toward him, wanting to help him.

"Adrien!" she cried.

At that moment, thunder crashed in the distance. His sister felt a bullet fly into the back of her head. Adrien saw the life and hope in her eyes fade in what was merely a second but felt like an eternity. She fell onto the muddy ground, her arm stretched out, about to help her brother get up on his feet. Crimson blood splattered her hair, and her body became stiff, motionless. He didn't hear the gunshot. Adrien could only hear the deafening thunder, which marked the end of his sister's life.

Adrien wanted to scream. He wanted to yell out her name, to bring her back to life. But then, the traitor hit him in the head with the back of his rifle. Adrien fell to the ground, paralyzed. He didn't hear the desperate screams and gunshots. He only heard thunder, and he only saw his sister's midnight blue eyes, wide open and looking straight at him. He reached his weak hand towards her. His index finger was barely an inch away from her pale, bleeding palm.

And then a shadow fell over his eyes.

* * *

"Whoa."

The marksman looked at his colleague, his mouth agape. His suited companion took a long drag of his cigarette before flicking the ashes into an ashtray.

"And zat, _mon ami, _ees why I hate thunder."

The Sniper closed his mouth and looked at the small ashy mountain in the black porcelain ashtray. He found out about his teammate's slight dislike for thunderstorms about two weeks ago. He hadn't stopped pestering him about it since. But still, one question bothered him. Why would a bloodthirsty mercenary be afraid of something as natural and simple as thunder? He got his answer that night, when the two of them walked into the dining room one day, for the sole purpose of having a strong drink to get their minds off a fiasco of a battle. The others had already gone to bed, wanting the day to end as soon as possible. The two quieter mercenaries stayed. Mundy would've been fine with a pint of beer, but Adrien wouldn't have it. He walked to the crystal liquor cabinet and took out a bottle of 25 year old Chivas along with two scotch glasses.

_"Oi thought you preferred martinis. Shaken, not stirred."_

_"'Ow very original, Mundy. Now shut up and let me drink."_

There is a certain level of intoxication a man must have before he could share the most personal and terrifying moment of his life. For Adrien, that level was set after three glasses of Chivas, one cold beer Mundy cracked open after he got bored with the taste of scotch, and around five cigarettes. Mundy finally understood why Spy hated thunder, but now he didn't know how to react.

"Oi… Oi'm sorry, mate. Oi'm sorry Oi poked fun of you, then."

The Spy raised his eyebrow, frowning at him.

"You say zhat as eef you're going to stop. Was zhat all it took? One sad story from my childhood?" He turned to the side and took another long drag. "Believe me, you would not be doing me a favor if you stopped now."

Mundy shook his head and poured himself another glass of scotch. He didn't drink it, but instead looked at the taupe liquid swishing inside the glass. He wanted to offer Spy another glass as well, but Adrien was looking in the distance, a puff of smoke leaving his mouth every now and then.

"You know Mundy, I hate thunder because it reminds me of everything that I've lost," he stated. Mundy looked at the Spy, but didn't respond. Adrien put out his cigarette in the ashtray and sighed. And at that point, Mundy knew that there was more to this story.

"You see, when I was a keed, I lived in France with mother and sister. We were a wealthy family, father left us a hefty amount of money in his will. He died before I ever met him."

Mundy licked his lips nervously, but continued to listen.

"My mother worked hard to give me and my sister a good life. She would come home late, leave us at the break of dawn. And during that time, my sister would take care of me. My sister was more of a mother to me than my mother was," he chuckled painfully. He made a pause as he took out another thin cigarette from his case.

"But zhen, ze war started. Mother thought that the Germans would go for Paris first. She sent me and my sister off to Marseilles to stay with our family. She gave us everything, food, clothes, money… I remember almost crying when I realized that my mother won't be coming with us that day. She was supposed to join us later. My sister held me in her arms and comforted me." Adrien lit up his cigarette.

"Wot happened to yer mum, Spook?"

Adrien looked at him briefly. That short gaze said more than a thousand words, but the Frenchman still wanted to explain it.

"She was right about the Germans. She was shot one day during a riot on her way back home. She had her bags packed. If she had left work an hour early, she would have joined us to Marseilles. But…"

Though Mundy was shocked at how calmly Spy talked about his mother's death, he was anxious to hear how this story progressed. He gulped and took a small sip of scotch. The smooth, oddly sweet liquid poured down his throat. He needed this, as it would later turn out.

"My sister… She was a saint. About a year into our life in Marseilles… we had nothing. Everything was stolen. Everything except for my father's boots and his coat. My sister gave them to me so I wouldn't catch a cold. Her toes were turning blue, but she put me in front of her needs." Spy held his glass in the palm of his hand, which was beginning to shake. The marksman noticed this.

"She would sing to me. She gave me her food. She prayed with me, promised me that everything was going to be fine. I… I still have those boots somewhere. The jacket I lost one day, on a train." He sighed and looked toward the hallway, not wanting to look Mundy in the eyes.

"Her death was the most tragic thing that ever happened to me. I promised myself that I would never forget her. The thunder reminds me of her death… but not of her."

"Sorry?" Mundy was confused. The Spy placed his elbows on his knees and clutched his head. He was pale and tired, but he needed to get something off his chest.

"My sister was everything to me. She gave me a life, she gave me hope. And her boots are the only things I have to remember her by. They used to remind me of her every time I looked at them," he said. He suddenly looked at the marksman;

"Things are precious, Mundy. Even more so than people. People make an impact on this world, but when the people go, their possessions stay. And they remind the world of those people."

Sniper remembered Spy's cluttered room. Every trinket, every magazine, every item well preserved. The Spy wasn't terrified of dying or thunder, he thought, he was mortified of being forgotten.

"Yesterday I came across her boots. I was looking for my balaclava. I moved them out of the way and kept looking."

The Sniper was anxiously waiting for a response that never came. The Spy put out his cigarette without clarifying his statement.

"…and?"

Spy looked at Mundy with a mixture of irritation and apathy.

"…and nothing. That was it. I came across the only thing my saint of a sister had left me and I…I…" he clutched his head; "I couldn't remember her."

He grabbed his glass firmly.

"The girl was my life. My older sister and me against the world. And now… I can't recall her face. I can't recall her voice. I forgot my sister and it's eating me up inside with every thunder, every day, day after day after fucking day!"

He threw the glass against the wall and it shattered into a million pieces. The soft brown liquid poured down the wall, staining it. The glass shards sparkled on the floor, reminding Mundy that his friend had lost it. Spy sighed and looked at the marksman with a sad expression on his face, his eyes forming a single tear fueled by anger and disappointment.

"I can't remember her name, Mundy."

The marksman didn't say anything. Instead, he took his glass and gave it to the Spy. The Frenchman was breathing heavily before he took the glass and gulped down its contents in one greedy sip. He slammed the glass against the table upon finishing it.

"Th-th…Thank you."

"Now, then…" Mundy started, sitting opposite of him, his legs crossed and his deep blue eyes focused on the broken Spy.

"What happened when you lost consciousness?"

The Spy twitched as he remembered what they were talking about. He cleared his throat, anxious to put this situation behind and start talking about something else.

"Ah, yes. Well, during the… thunder… a group of people from the Resistance came and killed the traitors. They saved me and sent me to Avignon. There they put me in a foster family. It wasn't all that good. But I will always be grateful to them for giving me a home. I think I actually became a Spy because the Resistance had such a massive impact on me." The Spy was now babbling, but Sniper was glad that he had snapped out of his crisis, for the time being.

"I remember the man that saved me. He was their leader. He had their symbol tattooed on his wrist. It's sort of like a cross. I think it was called the… the _Croix de_…"

The Spy's jaw suddenly dropped, and he stopped talking. He let out a small chuckle. The chuckle soon became a gush of wholehearted laughter. He slammed his hands against the table, tears flowing from his eyes. The Sniper looked at him in bemusement. He tried calling him, but Adrien couldn't hear him over his maniacal laughter. The Frenchman clutched his stomach, feeling every inch of his body ache.

"Wot, Spook, wot!?" Sniper finally snapped. The Spy looked at him, panting and gasping. He was still chuckling, but he looked sadder than ever.

"Lorraine. The _Croix de Lorraine._ My sister's name is…my sister's name was Lorraine. I remember. I remember now!" he shouted as he began laughing again, waving his arms around and knocking over the ashtray. This was the Spy's reaction to remembering his dead sister's name because of a measly tattoo on the wrist of a man who saved his life when he was a young child.

Mundy didn't say anything. Nothing needed to be said.


End file.
